


The Adventure Of Mr. James Phillimore (1899)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [174]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Butt Plugs, Deception, Destiel - Freeform, Gay Sex, Impersonation, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Umbrellas, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-22
Updated: 2017-07-22
Packaged: 2018-12-05 09:58:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11575725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Mr. James Phillimore steps back into his house to fetch an umbrella – and disappears without a trace. One of our strangest cases ever.





	The Adventure Of Mr. James Phillimore (1899)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bookworm4ever81](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookworm4ever81/gifts).



“Here?” Sherlock asked.

I swallowed hard. He was wearing those damn glasses again, and he knew full well what they did to me. How was I expected to concentrate on keeping notes when I had sex personified, standing there right in front of me and with the sort of look that said he was well aware just what I was thinking?

“Here”, I managed. His knowing smirk only served to make my trousers even tighter. And the fact that, after our recent summons, the bastard had insisted on a bout of sex with those glasses on, and then inserted the plug and told me that I would be wearing it all day! My life was so damn hard!

It was not the only thing!

+~+~+

We were standing in a hallway typical of thousands like it across England. The weak winter sun filtered through the cheap stained glass on the door, painting the parquetry floor in a rainbow of colours. I tried to remind myself that the red did not look like blood, and might therefore be a fair reflection of what had - possibly - happened here barely two hours ago. I absent-mindedly leant against a wall, which was a mistake as the angle only served to push the plug against my prostate, making me have to hide my whimper in a cough. And someone's really annoying smirk only added to my discomfiture.

Sherlock and I had been at breakfast when an urgent summons had arrived from the man currently standing on the bottom step of the flight of stairs, namely Mr. Robert Phillimore. His brother James had vanished in the most mysterious of circumstances, and whilst he had of course called the police, he had also sent a cab across London requesting our immediate attendance. My friend had been known to turn down such peremptory demands, but fortunately he had finished his second cup of coffee and was (more or less) in the land of the living, so after the aforementioned 'delay', we had decamped to our present location, namely the hallway of number one hundred and four, Prometheus Lane, Isleworth. 

I eased very carefully upright and looked around the area. A door to one side led into a small lounge, whilst further ones along the corridor led to a toilet, a cupboard and the kitchen respectively. The corridor itself was narrow, half the space being taken up with the staircase that ascended to the first floor (the cupboard under the stairs was locked, and I was not inclined to go poking around in the dark without a torch even if the lock-picking genius beside me had got it open). Our client, presumably expecting Sherlock to run around and magically produce clues or his missing brother from thin air, was getting visibly impatient.

“Five minutes, sirs”, he said. “I was at the gate when he came out, and had just looked at my watch. It was seven forty precisely, and the cab-driver was charging me for every second of the delay. My brother called out that he just had to get his umbrella, as it looked like rain, and stepped back into the house. I remember that I caught a glimpse of his shadow, as he still had the hall light on. When I heard the town clock chime the three-quarter-hour, I decided that I had waited long enough, so I came to the door.”

“Why had he closed the door?” Sherlock asked.

“My brother was never tidy in his whole life!” the man snorted balefully. “He had to close the door to reach the coat-stand – the hallway is not large, as you can see – so he should have been out of my sight for seconds. I had thought that he might be speaking to someone in the house, even though he lives alone, but when I went in after him – he was gone!”

“Who else could have been in the house, that you know of?” Sherlock asked.

“That is the mystery”, Mr. Phillimore said. “No-one at all. He is single, and is far too engrossed in his work to even consider the possibility of seeing someone.”

“Sir, your brother vanished from your sight for what should have been approximately five seconds”, Sherlock said pointedly. “Assuming that we discount the possibility of Mr. Herbert George Wells being correct in asserting that Martians are real, then some earthly agency is clearly implied. You describe your brother as a fit man, yet someone was able to not only to remove him from the property, but to do so in under five minutes, with no apparent resistance on his part, and without leaving a single trace. People do not just disappear without reason.”

I saw it. There was the briefest of hesitations before our client nodded. Sherlock pounced.

“Was your brother in any danger?” he demanded brusquely.

“Not as I knew”, Mr. Phillimore said, scratching his head. “But I called round last week, and he had just received a telegram that had upset him. I asked him what it was, but he threw it into the fire rather than show me.”

“So you have no idea what the contents of that telegram may have been?” Sherlock pressed.

“I myself received a request for support for a so-called Irish welfare group about the same time”, the man admitted. “I looked them up, and found that as I had suspected, they were just a front for murderous separatists. Our family was Irish a few generations back before we left these shores, you see, so someone had done their research. I wrote back and refused, and I heard nothing more. I did think from James' reaction that this might have been their approaching him, but I cannot be sure.”

“Was your letter at all threatening?” Sherlock asked.

“It was very cleverly worded”, the man said. “The words could have been seen as just a request, but there was definitely an implied threat behind them. I regret throwing mine in the dustbin now. But as I said, I heard nothing more so I assumed that they had just given up. You do not think.... they have James?”

“It is one possibility”, Sherlock said. “Let us examine all the others, however. Who else had access to the house?”

“”No-one should have been there at that time of the morning”, our client insisted. “He has only one friend to speak of, a gentleman he knows through work. A Mr. Bellows, but he never calls before mid-day; he would terrify even your hypothetical Martian before he has had at least two cups of coffee of a morning!”

I risked a smile at Sherlock, only to see him staring warningly at me. I blushed, and he grinned slightly before turning back to Mr. Phillimore. I would probably be paying for that smile later.

If I was lucky.

“Is there anyone else?” Sherlock asked. 

“They have a cleaner, a Mrs. Adlestrop from over Sidings Lane, but again, she does not come round till at least eleven”, our client said. “James once told me she does for someone in Grove Street before she comes to him, although I do not know the number.”

“Curious”, Sherlock said. “What do you and your brother do in the city, pray?”

The man's face darkened. I wondered why; it seemed an innocuous enough question.

“I work as a trader in the City”, he said stiffly, “and have sufficient investments of my own to be able to do only three days a week there. James is a curator at the British Museum. I assume that you gentlemen have read of 'Hadrian's Haul'?”

I smiled at the name, given by the press to the discovery last year of a leather pouch found buried at a fort along Hadrian's Wall, the great Roman fortification which cut through my home county of Northumberland. The contents had initially seemed only mildly interesting – a few coins and some pins – but upon close examination it had emerged that someone had sewn a secret message onto the inside of the pouch, warning the recipient Brutus, a legionnaire based on the Wall, of treachery within the Roman ranks that would shortly lead to an attack by the Picts beyond the border. The coins had dated the pouch to around just when such an attack had indeed occurred.

“James was suspended over the theft of that little bauble”, our client said angrily, “and it lasted nearly a month until one of the security guards shot himself, leaving a signed confession. They even tried to avoid giving my brother back-pay, until I threatened to bring in a lawyer!”

“Quite right too!” I agreed, though I privately wondered if Mr. James Phillimore's subsequent disappearance threw a new light on that affair. 

“Have you ever visited your brother at work?” Sherlock asked. Our client's eyes narrowed.

“What are you implying?” he demanded.

“I will be blunt”, Sherlock said. “You have already told us that you are nearly identical in appearance, despite your being a year older. It seems that someone would have a far greater motive to move against _you_ than your brother. As your detective, I must consider all possibilities, especially those that endanger your good self.”

The man looked alarmed at this.

“I did visit him at work only this Saturday, two days past”, he admitted. “You do not think.... those damn Irish are targeting me after all?”

“I would like access to your house”, Sherlock said carefully. “As a professional, I may be able to see if anyone has been inside it. I would rather be safe than sorry.”

“Good heavens, yes!” he said fervently. “You don't think that they will try anything?”

“I think that you should go about your business in the city today”, Sherlock said. “There is more safety in a crowd than a quiet street or empty house. Tell me, sir, working at the British Museum would not normally merit such a house as this? Does your brother have a similar financial background to your good self?”

He smiled.

“James and I arrived from Canada about three months ago”, he explained. “We lived in a small place called Inverness on Cape Breton, Nova Scotia. We made our fortune in logging in that country, and I manage our investments, as he has never had a head for figures. In truth I could probably just about get by with not working, but I quite like my job, or parts of it at least. And James loves his.”

I privately thought it a little odd that he claimed closeness with his brother, yet used his full name when discussing him. I might have expected 'Jamie' or even 'Jay', instead. Then again, people were often surprising; working with Sherlock I knew that more than most.

“And do you always take the train in to work together?” my friend asked. Our client shook his head.

“This was the first day that we ever did”, he said ruefully. “He only went into the Museum two days a week, usually Tuesdays and Fridays. My work days are Monday, Wednesday and Thursday. But the Museum is starting a major new exhibition on Egyptians next month, and after some of the exhibits have been delayed in their arrival, he told me that it was all hands on deck. I had not seen him for a couple of weeks – I myself had been taking a break up in The Lakes - so we arranged to travel in together and catch up on each other's lives.”

My friend nodded. Mr. Phillimore seemed nervous, tapping his fingers on the stair-post. 

“Please leave instructions on one of your cards, so I may be admitted to your house in your absence”, Sherlock said at last. “The doctor and I will spend another hour here at least, as there is still much to learn. I promise that I will report to you in person as soon as there is something worth reporting.”

Our client looked dubious at that, but wrote something on a card and handed it to me before hurrying from the house. Sherlock waited until he had gone before speaking.

“John”, he said slowly, “I want you to look around this house, and tell me what _your_ impression of Mr. James Phillimore is. I would value an unbiased opinion, and I know that you will deliver one.”

“But are you not going to look for clues first?” I asked. He shook his head.

“I have an inkling as to which direction this case may be heading”, he said. “I have seen all that I wish to see here.”

I looked around the hallway. There seemed nothing the least out of the ordinary about it.

“This is one of those cases when I do not see what our client hopes for you to do”, I said gruffly. “It is not as if you can make Mr. James Phillimore suddenly re-appear out of thin air!”

“Who knows?” Sherlock grinned. “I just might!”

I stared at him, confused.

“Oh, one thing he told me when you were outside, dealing with that child who fell on the pavement”, he said. “Mr. Robert Phillimore is the beneficiary of a rather impressive life insurance policy that the brothers hold on each other, so naturally the insurance company will be reluctant to pay out until it can be established exactly what happened to his brother. And, of course, that he himself played no part in it.”

“You think that he may have killed his brother?” I asked, surprised.

He pulled out a book from his pocket and sat on the stairs. Then he looked up at me and smiled.

“I am one hundred per cent certain that he could not have done”, he said.

For neither the first nor the last time, I felt that there was more to that blithe expression than appeared. And for neither the first nor the last time, I knew that I had precisely zero chance of every working out what that was!

+~+~+

After my examination of the house of the vanished man, I came back down the stairs to find Sherlock waiting for me. To my surprise, he did not immediately demand the results of my analysis, but insisted on an immediate drive to Mr. Robert Phillimore's house just across the Thames in Richmond, Surrey, where he asked me to do exactly the same. The cleaner, a Mrs. Martin, looked at me in some surprise as my eyes were watering by this time - the carriage ride between the two houses had been sheer torture! - but fortunately (for once) there was a cat in the house, and I blamed my reactions on it. It was possibly the first time in my life that a feline has ever been of any real use to me!

By the time that we reached Richmond Station, I was a wreck. I expected Sherlock to take a train to Waterloo and thence a cab to Baker Street, but he surprised me by instead buying tickets for the North London Railway to Willesden Junction, where I knew we could take the underground line back to Baker Street. I groaned at the prospect of an even longer train ride home.

“Tell me about your impressions of the two brothers”, Sherlock said once the train had started.

I gathered my thoughts (along with my remaining wits), gave silent thanks to the Good Lord for the invention of the padded seat, and flicked open my notebook. 

“Mr. James Phillimore appears to have been quite careful with his money”, I began. “Ebenezer Scrooge would have been proud of him. There were several things around that had been patched up, including a blanket that was barely serviceable. He had a ton of second-hand books, including of course a lot of history ones. Ancient Greece seemed to be a particular interest. He had rather too many of those scented candles that women seem to like nowadays. And he did not apparently like wearing suits.”

“Why do you say that?” Sherlock asked, tilting his head.

“His work clothes apart, he only had one formal suit, and that was a second-hand one from his brother”, I said. “There was a bill for minor adjustments in his pocket, made presumably to fit him; I noticed that his clothes had longer legs. He definitely did not like gardening; I took one look outside the back door, and that was enough! He did not seem to like cooking much either; there was little food in the kitchen, but several leaflets for local restaurants. There was only one slightly odd thing, I thought.”

“What?” Sherlock asked. 

“He had an underground railway ticket for his journey to work last week”, I said. “I know underground tickets do not get clipped, but they always get surrendered at the end of the journey. I do not see how or why he kept it, unless he knows someone who collects the things. And usually only young boys do that.”

“Very well observed”, Sherlock said with a smile. “Now, Mr. Robert Phillimore.”

“The man is a tidiness freak!” I muttered. “Either that, or he deducts a farthing from his cleaner's wage-packet for each grain of dust that he finds once she has gone. But he does share his brother's care when dealing with money. He also has a disturbingly large collection of romantic novels, but thankfully his house is candle-free.”

Sherlock smiled.

“Apart from the financial aspect and the number of books, they have little in common”, I said. “Our client's garden is infinitely superior. I spoke to one of his neighbours over the back fence, a Mrs. Parsley. She said he keeps the garden himself and is more often away from the house than not, but a decent enough person when home. Very quiet too, she said.”

“Interesting”, my friend said. “Yes, it all adds up.” He looked at his watch. “We are slowing for Kew Gardens, which means that we shall be in Willesden in approximately ten minutes. Drop your trousers, John.”

My eyes watered even more at the prospect of release, and I was out of my lower garments in record time. Sherlock put his glasses on, and whipped out his already erect cock, before fingering around my entrance. Far from removing the plug however he seemed to be working it even further into me. I groaned, thankful for a non-corridor train and praying that any passengers here or any of the other stops had the sense to know what lowered blinds in a first-class compartment during the daytime meant. If they did not, then they would find out the 'hard' way!

Sherlock continued to work me ever wider, and the finally began to withdraw the plug. I did not know whether to be relieved or disappointed – but he stopped with only the head of the thing at my entrance, which was now probably wide enough to take Lord alone knows what. It was only when I felt the familiar feel of his cock-head joining the cold smoothness of the plug that I realized what he was up to, and whined.

“We don't have to do this if you don't want to, John”, he whispered to me whilst tickling my ear with his clever tongue. “You know I love you too much to ever hurt you. At least, not unless you want me to?”

I managed a weak glare, and gestured for him to get in with it. His cock was more than a match for the plug, and bearing in mind the shortness of our journey I was grateful when he went straight for my prostate. I was less grateful when the train jerked to a start again and he hit it full on, causing me to come violently. God, I was a mess, but I did not care. 

He seemed to pick up speed with the train, thrusting into me faster and faster as the train picked up speed, then slowing again as it braked for the next stop – Gunnersbury, if I remembered correctly. Not that I was in much of a state to do anything, especially as he had not yet come. And he showed that impossible stamina of his by repeating the process for both South Acton and Acton Stations, before finally climaxing as we left the latter, erupting inside of me with a snarl. I almost felt deprived when he withdrew both himself and the plug, but I knew that we would need time to make ourselves presentable before we rolled into busy Willesden Junction.

+~+~+

To my surprise, when we reached Willesden we changed not to the line to Baker Street, but the branch down through Primrose Hill to Euston. I did not bother to ask why, as I was busy trying to sit down without wincing, and glaring at the blue-eyed genius across from me. We reached the terminus without further molestation (I was not sure whether to be glad or relieved), but on leaving the coach Sherlock whispered to me:

“Tonight, it will be my turn.”

And thanks to those four little words, I had to carry my doctor's bag in front of me through one of the capital's busiest stations! Damnation!

Sherlock's reason for his trip emerged when he visited the stationmaster's office, and asked politely if he could talk with the staff who had been selling tickets that morning. One had since gone home, but he was able to talk with six of them, and came away with the sort of look a cat has when it has just got the cream. Or that a famous detective has when he has just reduced his chief scribe to a quivering wreck.

“We will divert to the local police station, and see if we can obtain the services of our friend Sergeant Baldur”, he said with a smile. “This has been a most interesting case, and with luck we may have it all wrapped up tonight.”

“You may”, I pouted. “I am all at sea.”

“It is your observations that have helped confirm my theory”, he said, far too reasonably. “And you have seen all that I have seen.”

“That is the trouble”, I said crossly. “I have, and I am _still_ all at sea!”

+~+~+

We were fortunate to find Sergeant Baldur in the middle of completing paperwork (did policemen in the upper levels of the Metropolitan Police Service ever finish their form-filling, I wondered?), and he was of course only too delighted to accompany us. We arrived back at Baker Street, and Sherlock seemed surprised for some reason.

“He is late”, he said, in a put-upon tone. “Highly unreasonable of him.”

“Who is late?” I asked.

“The man behind the disappearance of Mr. James Phillimore”, he said, as if it were obvious. “We shall send down to Mrs. Singer for some tea and cakes whilst we wait. Come!”

We followed him up, and were soon joined by a tray of welcome hot drinks and refreshments. It seemed that Sherlock's guest had disobliged him, but I should have known better. I had just finished my first cup when there was the sound of heavy feet on the stairs, and moments later the door burst open to admit....

Mr. Robert Phillimore?

“Gentlemen”, he panted, waving a piece of paper frantically at us. “I got home.... this was there..... James is in Ireland!”

I accepted the paper, which turned out to be an unsigned telegram. It stated that Mr. James Phillimore had been kidnapped and was being taken to Ireland. His captors demanded a large sum of money from his brother for his safe return, and he only had forty-eight hours in which to respond, or they would kill their hostage. Any attempt to communicate with the police would result in the man's immediate execution. Further instructions were to follow.

“Why was there no sign of a scuffle?” was my first thought.

“Maybe they used chloroform”, the sergeant suggested. 

“There was a path along the back”, I remembered. “I could see it from the house, and only a latched gate in between. A pity that I did not go through that nightmare of a back garden and check it.”

“Could you raise this money?” Sherlock asked, looking surprisingly calm.

“I will!” Mr. Phillimore said firmly. “James' life is at stake!”

“I hardly think so.”

We all looked at him in surprise. He smiled lazily, stood up and walked round to close the door behind Mr. Phillimore. 

What he did next caught me totally unaware. Before our visitor could turn to face him, he suddenly found himself handcuffed.

“The game is up”, Sherlock said softly. “Mr. Robert Phillimore - or whatever your real name is.”

Our visitor's face contorted with rage, and he struggled angrily against his bonds, but Sergeant Baldur slipped round and added his own set. With that he seemed resigned to his fate, and slumped against the wall.

“You bastard!” he snarled at Sherlock. “How did you guess?”

Sherlock looked affronted.

“I never 'guess'”, he said loftily. “I all but knew, and fortunately your actions after the crime gave you away.”

“He killed his own brother?” I asked.

“He has no brother”, Sherlock said. “Mr. James Phillimore never existed, and his sole purpose was to defraud the Metropolis Insurance Company of a large sum of money, so that this man can continue in the lifestyle that he believes is his as of right!”

I just stared at my friend.

“This man arrives from Canada, or wherever he is really from”, Sherlock said. He is playing for high stakes, so he is prepared to invest some of his future ill-gotten gains. A little manipulation, and it is made to appear that two brothers have come to England. He settles in semi-rural Middlesex, and establishes two identities. Robert, the man who can handle figures and manages the family finances, and James, the dreamer who works part-time for the British Museum. Which is where the whole thing nearly unravels.”

“Like most criminals, passing up the chance of additional wealth proves irresistible. A rare artifact is on show at the Museum, and he succumbs to temptation, thinking that he can sell it for, as the Americans say, 'a fast buck'. The real Mr. James Phillimore, had he ever existed, would have foreseen the hue and cry that would arise over the theft of such a unique item. Our man here panics, and manages to frame an innocent co-worker at the Museum, placing the bag in his house before shooting him and making it appear as suicide. All goes well for him, and in the subsequent confrontation with the Museum over back pay, he gains the bonus of reinforcing the idea that 'Robert' and 'James' are two different people.”

Sherlock turned to me.

“Whilst you were investigating the two houses”, he said, “I talked with as many local people as I could find. It boosted my theory in that not one of them could remember ever having seen the brothers together, though the neighbours had heard them talking to each other inside the houses. A one-man conversation, of course.”

Our prisoner scowled.

“Sustaining such an illusion is dangerous the longer it goes on, so he is quick to bring things to a conclusion”, Sherlock said. “A major exhibition at the Museum means that 'Robert' has to go in on a day that 'James' works; you may recall how their work days did not overlap. Our friend here decides that the time is now right to end this farce. 'Robert' returns from The Lakes and arranges to go into work with his brother 'to catch up'. He calls for him that morning, something that he has never done before.”

"He has arranged for an associate of his to be inside the house, and to play briefly the part of his brother. This person is similar in appearance to himself and, had matters worked out as our criminal friend here had planned, have been murdered when he came to be paid and had his body identified as the dead 'Mr, James Phillimore'. I sent a message to our friend Mr. Marcus Crowley warning him that whoever employed this man, he was unlikely to see many more sunrises if he continued with this ramp, and the fellow very wisely failed to turn up in Liverpool." "Liverpool?" Sergeant Baldur asked, confused. 

“I am coming to that Lancashire port's part in this", Sherlock promised. "Our guest here times things so that, shortly before the town hall clock strikes the three-quarter hour, he is there outside the house, and some innocent passers-by are there to witness his impatience. They see him storm up the garden path, push open the door, and find his 'James' vanished. He is fortunate – although it was a safe bet - that the people succumb to the human sin of curiosity, and wait to watch what happens, so he is able to come out immediately and urge one of them to fetch the police.”

“He called you in, though”, I pointed out. Sherlock smiled.

“Indeed”, he said. “What further steps could the poor brother do to establish that facts than call in London's premier consulting detective? Should I fail to find the man who never was, his innocence is clear. Yet the clues were there, if one looked for them.”

“What clues?” I demanded. 

“First, the area around the doorway”, Sherlock said. “It was clean.”

The sergeant and I both stared at him in confusion.

“So what?” the sergeant asked. Sherlock chuckled.

“Gentlemen, that area in private houses is subject to particular wear and tear”, he said. “A quick examination of the rest of the house showed it had been cleaned to the standard one might expect of a cleaning lady, yet the hallway was _spotless_. Someone had taken the trouble to clean away absolutely any trace of anything. And the kitchen had barely been used, yet the man had been there for a month, allegedly. No-one can dine out all the time.”

“What else?” I asked.

“The sole suit was unusual, especially as someone with the wealth of Mr. James Phillimore would not usually have skimped on formal wear, let alone have borrowed a suit from his brother”, Sherlock said. “The underground ticket was purchased by our prisoner to establish his brother's character, suggesting an absent-mindedness that was different from his brother's focus and care for detail. And perhaps most damningly of all, there was the staircase.”

“What about the staircase?” I asked. “It looked perfectly normal.”

“I challenged our prisoner as to whether or not his 'brother' wore a ring”, Sherlock said. “I predicted, correctly as it turned out, that as he himself wore one, his 'brother' would not. But my examination of the stair-post at the bottom of the stairs showed that someone had repeatedly come down and used that post to pull themselves round to go to the kitchen, and that that someone had worn a ring, which had begun to remove the paint from the post. I dare say that a close examination of the man's ring would show marks that correspond perfectly.”

Sergeant Baldur went over to the man and, with my help, removed the ring from his unwilling hand. He looked closely at it, and nodded to Sherlock.

“You will remember that the man left us around mid-morning”, Sherlock went on. “He did not go to the city. Instead, he went to Euston station to catch a train.”

“How do you know that?” our prisoner grunted. “You psychic or something?”

Sherlock waved the telegram at him. 

“This is sent from the telegraph office of the London & North Western Railway at their Lime Street station in Liverpool”, he said.

“That was why you went to Euston!” I exclaimed, He nodded.

“One of the ticket-vendors recognized the description I gave of you”, Sherlock told our prisoner, whose scowl only deepened. “And I am certain that when we wire to Liverpool, someone at the telegraph office there will do so as well. You originally planned to meet your accomplice there, but he failed to turn up, so you resorted to your back-up plan. A message is sent ostensibly from your brother's captors, and you then return to London to 'receive the dreadful news'.”

“It's only fraud!” our prisoner objected. “No-one got killed!”

“You are forgetting Mr. Andrew Meadows, the co-worker you murdered to cover your museum theft”, Sherlock said. “I feel sure that we can search your house and find enough evidence to convict you of that. And murder, sir, is rightly a hanging offence!”

+~+~+

He was right. Although 'Mr. Robert Phillimore' – we never found out his real name – continued to deny everything, drafts of the suicide note that he had written out for Mr. Meadows were found in his writing-desk, and that proved sufficient to convince an English jury. Whoever he was, he was dispatched from this world, and it was a better place without him. Sherlock was offered a large reward from the Metropolis Insurance Company, but insisted on their making it over to the widow and family of the slain Mr. Meadows. Typical of the man!

Oh, and the night after my train trip was indeed memorable. Plus Sherlock even wore the glasses for me! It was worth not being able to walk properly the following day.

+~+~+

Our next adventure would take us back down to Cornwall, where a clash of cultures would prove deadly.


End file.
